


List Under "Things That are Not Okay"

by nicholas_de_vilance



Category: Irrefutable Truth About Demons (2000)
Genre: Choking, Collars, M/M, Multi, Non Consensual, POV First Person, Rape, Torture, Violence, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-16 00:23:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/855669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicholas_de_vilance/pseuds/nicholas_de_vilance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dark AU fic in which Harry does not break the chain and flee his captives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	List Under "Things That are Not Okay"

**Author's Note:**

> Darkest thing I have written in a very long time. Seriously, a lot darker than it should be.

List under “things that are not okay.”

            I’m so heavy.  It hurts to wake up even, without moving.  I can’t move, don’t want to move.  I feel like just laying here forever—wasting away— _dying_ —let it happen now—not later—now— _waste, death, dying_ —

            I can’t move, but I have to.  Something…some reason why I have to.  I need to move, get up, run.  Keep running, Harry.  Don’t stop, they’ll get you.  I need to run.  How can I run?  I can barely move.  My heart might be pounding, or maybe it’s stopped and I no longer need to worry.  Pounding…pounding hard in my skull, against my ribs.  Pounding, but it hurts like it shouldn’t be pounding, like it shouldn’t be able to pound.  I feel drugged.  I am drugged.

            They drugged me.

            Arms…make the arms move.  I pull my arms over the floor, to get them under me.  One’s already under me—it tingles—lack of circulation—responds sloppily—tingles in the fingertips—don’t move— _keep moving_ —make it move— _run_ —

            _They drugged me._

            It felt like ages, I’m not sure.  I get my arms under me, pushed and felt the ground give way.  I am strong, I can move the Earth itself.  No you can’t, don’t be an idiot, Harry.  Blink a few times; I blink a few times, clear the vision and the mind.  Once I can see I can think, except not really because thinking means remembering and I’m scared.  I’m so fucking scared, if only I could remember what I’m scared of.

            The floor smells like salt water and piss.  And like stale semen with a hint of cinnamon.  And blood.

            My feet are down, underneath me.  I did it, I stood up.  Still feel heavy, drugged, hurt.  Stood up though, I stood up all by myself, my own strength forcing the Earth down underneath me.  No, other way around.  I’m not vertical—feel like I’m suffocating—I can’t straighten my back—harder to breathe—when I try it gets harder to breathe.  Heavy, I’m so heavy, and my throat is tight, constricted, I’m being choked.  Someone’s choking me— _there’s no one here_ —killing me— _no one_ —I’m fucking scared— _just kill me_ —don’t kill me—I don’t want to die—don’t let me die—

            The floor moves, or that heavy thing on my neck drags me down.  There’s a wall, I have to fling my hands up to keep it from hitting my face.  Then I realize I’m falling.  I barely manage to catch myself on the way down, once I’m on the floor, I’m good.  I can’t fall any further.  The chain rattles.  Chain—they chained me—drugged me— _killed me_ —no, not dead—don’t want to die—

            They drugged me, chained me up…shit, who does that?  I shake my head, trying to clear it, look around.  I can breathe again, I feel my neck—leather.  They drugged me, collared me, chained me to the floor.  Had a girlfriend once who was into this sort of thing, but that hurt less and usually ended up with her sitting on my cock.  I grab the chain with my tingly hand—can’t get a good grip.  Both hands this time, tug.  I pull once, twice, harder—yank on the damn thing—won’t give— _keep running, Harry_ —can’t run—yank harder— _won’t give_ —let me go, you mother fucker!

            I get to my feet again, using the chain as leverage and stand low and wide to keep balance while I yank and pull and pry at the bracket bolted into the floor that kept my chain secure.  Someone screams while I’m working—I realize it’s me, I’m screaming.  Need to get out now, need to run before they come back.

            “Oi, guys!” I hear someone call—outside my little room, “I think he’s awake!”

            It’s a woman and she’s sing-song happy.  I don’t need to ask to know who she’s talking about—who she’s so excited about.  She was the one who drugged me, shoved that needle into my neck.  I didn’t know what it was at the time, but now I’m thinking heroin or something similar.  I slowed down, got heavy and numb.  I remember the nausea from before.  Flashback—I remember being thrown down— _the smell of the floor_ —dragged up by the hair—Chain-head guy touching me, hissing in my ear—leather wrapped snug around my throat.  They collared me up like a dog.  _Do your little doggy tricks, slave_.

            Laughter, they were laughing outside and I pull and pull and scream until my throat gets sore and my fingers stiff.  The bracket won’t come loose.  They’re gonna come in and kill me.  I’m scared, so fucking scared—I don’t want to die— _please_ —don’t let me die here— _keep running, Harry_ —I’m scared— _fuck_ —pull— _get out_ —move— _run_ —

            I hear them laughing and talking, plotting.  A man’s shrill, delighted squeal about pain, how much he likes pain.  I’m pretty sure he doesn’t mean his own pain.  There’s tears in my eyes, I’m crying and I don’t care, too busy.  I pull and yank and practically dislocate both of my shoulders, praying to every God from every culture I have ever studied that I can break free before that damn door opens.

            The door opens.

            Fuck.

            The red-haired bastard—think they called him Wank—is standing in the doorway with a sadistic grin that twists his face into something demonic.  Chain-head is right behind him holding a chainsaw.  I let go of the chain and step back, as far into the opposite side of the room as I can get.  Maybe the chain throws me off, but I fall on my ass.  Wank is on me, slamming my back into the floor.

            “I get to play,” he screeches with his eerie, maniacal laughter, grabbing at my face.  He’s got nails, long and blunt, pressing into my face.  “Are you ready for the pain, Slave?”

            I’m not a slave, I’m not their fucking plaything, and I’m sure that’s what I try to say.  Wank had my jaw in his hand and he was pushing it up into my skull.  He gives a push and my head slams back, then swims.  I’m falling through the floor, floating, swinging from the hangman’s noose above the void—maybe they’ll cut me loose— _let me die_ —I don’t wanna die—

            I’m pulled up by the chain by Chain-head, and I try to get my fingers under the leather collar to loosen it, let me breathe, but I can’t manage it.  I choke as I’m dragged out from under Wank and then thrown against the wall.  And I really am floating, my feet lift off the floor, the collar digs into my throat, I feel my back scrape over the wall.  How?  I’m hanging—being hanged—which is it?  Try to blink, look around—Chain-head—Masked-bitch—they stand there watching me, holding the length of chain—my chain—I’m being hanged— _gonna die_ — _need to run_ —can feel my eyes roll back into my head.

            I’m so fucking scared.  Funny how terror can stick around even as all my faculties are going—spots in my vision—ears pounding— _so numb_ —I’m so numb.  A little bit comes back to me when I hear that chainsaw roar to life—enough to give a short scream.  I get my fingers under the collar; it doesn’t really help.  Fuzzy, everything is fuzzy.

            “You get a choice, Slave!”  Someone shouts, sounds distant.  Wank is pressed against me, height change putting his head into my chest.  His hands slide over me in a way that makes me really uncomfortable—I just barely have enough clarity of thought to register the insinuation of his nails dragging up the inside of my thigh and the way he sniffs my chest.  “Ready, Slave?  Ready for your choice?  Better make it a good one!”

            I don’t know what to do, but I want him to get on with it so that maybe they will let me down.  I nod, can’t quite speak, just nod.  Wank gives a disgusting, happy squeal.

            “Options,” he shrieks, voice high and grating—distant though—getting further.  “Which would you rather have shoved into your orifices, Slave?”

            What?

            Can’t see anymore—just blobs—getting shapeless.

            What?

            “Which one, Slave!?”  Can’t think, what the fuck is he asking me?  His hand grips my thigh tighter and I can hear the chainsaw revving somewhere in the room and then whimpering and I’m terrified that it might be me.  “The chainsaw…or my cock?”  He grabs me through the crotch of my slacks, squeezing hard and it fucking hurts.  Hurts enough to bring me back, I pull on the collar and take a short breath.

            “What?” I croak out.

            The chainsaw revs again, this time I can see it—Masked-bitch is holding it and her wide beady eyes are watching me from just above her sick, twisted smirk.  I’m gonna die—they’re gonna kill me— _shoulda run, Harry_ — _idiot_ — _gonna be in pieces—fuck—fuck—fuck—_

            “Make a choice, Slave!”  Wank exclaims,  adjusting his grip uncomfortably on my dick—I think I can feel his nails starting to dig in.  Tears in my eyes again, not just from the air-loss. My face is hot and I’m nauseated—maybe the drug—maybe disgust.  “Make the choice or I get to make it for you, Slave.  Either way I get to play!”

            I can’t shout out for each of them to kindly fuck off and die, can’t fill my lungs enough to scream or think or see.  But I can hear the saw, idling away and then revving and somehow I know it’s coming closer—practically feel the vibration in my body—pulsing next to my pounding heart— _gonna die_ —should have fucking run you complete, useless fuck— _need to run, Harry—get away, Harry—they’re going to kill you, Harry—just fucking let them_ —don’t wanna die— _might as well—let them—end it—_

            The saw is right beside me, I can feel the air current it kicks up brushing against my pant leg.  No—no—no—no—I don’t wanna die.

            “Cock!”  I shout—or try to, comes out stilted, not enough air.  My face either turns red or already is red.  My vision whites out and I can’t keep my arms up to pull on the collar anymore.  I am sharply aware that I’m not breathing and then…

            I’m on the floor.  I can breathe.  I’m fucking terrified.  Still can’t see, can’t move, all I can do is choke and claw at that collar.  The thing won’t come off, I can’t get my feet under me, can’t crawl away.  Piss and salt water and come and blood on the floor, my face pressed against all of that.  My knees slid over the wood boards of the floor, trying to gain purchase to scramble away from the hands I felt pulling at me, pawing at me.

            Someone is still holding the chainsaw too close to me, someone has grabbed my hair and pressed my face into the piss and salt water, and grimy little grabby hands are on my hips.  I’m pulled up, maneuvered and they’re tugging at my slacks.  I can’t get my arms to obey, my legs to kick out in retaliation.  Squirming doesn’t help me, it helps Wank get my trousers down and then he’s holding me down and—no-no-no-no—NO—

            I can’t think straight, can’t move right, can’t even really feel what I should be feeling.  The floor’s oddly warm, not comforting—warm in the way that the chainsaw next to my fucking head gives off an energetic heat.  It still makes my skin crawl.  I’m trying to get up, away from the sudden coolness on my flank where my slacks used to cover me.  The fucker is touching me, grimy fucking fingers poking at my flesh and I try to kick him, push myself away but the collar goes tight again.  Chain-head kneels with one knee on my back, my shoulders, pinning me, pulling on my chain.  I can’t move—need to move—shoulda fuckin’ run, Harry, you stupid bastard—look at you now!  I blinked and turned my head away from the face-full of Chain-head’s crotch to my right.  Wank’s hands on my hips again.  There’s nothing I can do—can’t move—can’t fight— _just gonna fucking lay there and fucking take it_ —oh Christ, he’s gonna do it—no—no please, no—

            A whine catches on its way out of my throat, ripping through me into the air as a scream.  I’m screaming again because he’s forcing his way inside of me.  I claw at the floor until my nails break—they bleed—and try to put weight up to throw Chain-head off of me because this is fucking happening and I can’t stop it—please no— _shoulda run you poor, stupid bastard_ —please no—hurts—I’m being ripped open—

            And yet…the pain feels almost distant—almost tolerable— _in comparison to the humiliation_ —the idea that I chose this— _practically asked for it_ —oh god, didn’t I beg for it—

            I can’t get away and it’s not gonna fit.  How even can it fit?  Can’t get a grip on the floor, can’t get away, and fuck it hurts.  Finally, I’m not scared, just hurt and angry.  Humiliated.  Fucked into the grimy floor by a devil-worshipping psychopath.  Wank is thrusting before I can even adjust and I’m sure something tears, but I can’t even scream anymore.  Chain-head is cutting off my air.  Vision going blurry—thoughts mixing up— _fucking choking kink_ —fucking bastards—I’m gonna die—

            I’m coughing when I can breathe again, like acid in my lungs.  Headache, bruises forming on my neck and my hips and my nails are bleeding.  Someone’s foot on the back of my head—my rapist keeps thrusting—I just lie there— _what’s the point—gonna die anyway_ —should just try to relax so it doesn’t hurt as bad—it hurts so bad—wanna die— _wanna kill_ —

            I don’t know if the bastard even finishes or whatever, but he pulls out abruptly, shoving me to the side.  I keep still, on my side, my arms wrapped around myself.  Half wanna ask them to just kill me, slit my throat, cut my fucking head off with that stupid chainsaw— _the chainsaw is off_ —better than lying here with my slacks around my ankles sobbing silently into the floor.  What a pathetic mess I must look like.  I can’t face this, can’t feel these things.  God, if Celia could see me now…fuck… _Celia_ —was supposed to meet her at the restaurant— _shoulda fucking run, stupid bastard_ —looks like I’m gonna miss our date— _stupid bastard, Harry Ballard_ —she’s gonna be so pissed—hope she never sees me like this— _I’d slit my own throat for them_.

            I can hear them still laughing, but I don’t move.  Everything hurts, every inch of my skin is raw and pained and bleeding.  The fuckers are laughing and moving around up there, out of my sight because I’ve clenched my eyes shut.  Good thing, too.  Something hits my face, hot liquid, it smells.  It doesn’t matter.  I can’t even flinch, what difference does it make?  They’ve drugged me, collared me, chained me, raped me, and now they’re pissing on me.  I don’t even care— _so heavy_ —I’ll die soon anyway— _slowed way down_ —hopefully they’ll kill me before I wake up again— _so heavy_ —

            I’m sorry Celia—

            I’m not gonna make it—

            List under “things that are not okay”—

            _Keep running, Harry_ —


End file.
